The Birthday Present
by samvimes
Summary: Havelock Vetinari, previous to becoming Patrician, makes the wisest purchase of his life.


Once more, I welcome you, gentle readers...  
  
This story contains mild spoilers for 'The Night Watch' if you   
consider the use of a character from that book to be a 'spoiler'.   
I don't, but I don't consider kidneys to be a valid pie filling,   
either.   
  
To each their own.  
  
Also, I am choosing to believe that a dog cannot be described as   
"elderly" in Sourcery when, sixteen years later, he is reputed to   
be...well...sixteen. Unless he's been spending even more time up   
at the High Energy Magic building than Gaspode. Rum luck.   
  
  
The Birthday Present  
Set just before Sourcery  
  
  
The dog Wuffles turned over and regarded the priest with one baleful   
black eye.  
'He's doing very well for a dog of his age,' said Hughnon, in a   
desperate attempt to climb a suddenly tilting slope. 'How old would he   
be now?'  
'Sixteen,' said the Patrician. 'That's over a hundred in dog years.'  
-- The Truth  
  
'The more I learn about people, the more I like my dog.' -- Dorothy   
Parker (I think; it sounds like something she would say)  
  
  
  
Havelock Vetinari, despite being an Assassins school graduate and   
having inhumed a fair number of people, found the whole business   
rather...distasteful. There were so many things people were good for,   
/other/ than target practice, and especially when you didn't actually   
need any practice. Even the ones who stirred things up, well, they had   
their uses. It all depended on getting them to stir the right things.  
  
But -- and this was a reality that had not asserted itself for young   
Havelock as soon as it should have done -- Guild Politics and City   
Politics went hand in hand. You didn't attend the Assassins' Guild to   
learn how to assassinate. That was just a side-effect. You attended the   
Assassins' Guild to meet the Right People and learn how to behave in   
Society.   
  
Once this realization had dawned on him, things became a lot less   
difficult for his teachers. Havelock went from being a lazy boy with no   
promise to an excellent if rather unimaginative student. If he seemed   
to be thinking of other things while doing his lessons...well, there   
was no helping some people.   
  
After graduation, he had kept up appearances rather nicely. He went on   
the Grand Sneer, touring many foreign countries with his Society   
companions in order to see how superior his own city was. He threw   
subdued, pleasant parties, and attended the Opera with various women of   
his age and social standing. He danced well, it was said. He lived in a   
pleasant town-house in Ankh, and never took contracts from the Guild*.   
All in all, a likely young man and a credit to the family.   
  
The town-house was tastefully decorated -- Madam had seen to that --   
and quite empty, most of the time. Havelock never could find help that   
would stay longer than a few weeks. He tried to be a good employer, but   
he'd trained himself to walk silently. The maids couldn't seem to get   
used to his sudden appearance, and quickly developed acute paranoia, or   
occasionally facial tics.   
  
Those he fired never could understand how he found out so /quickly/   
that they'd been stealing from him.  
  
So it happened that he was quietly cooking his own breakfast, and   
thinking about other things entirely, when he realized it was his   
thirtieth birthday.  
  
No, not /realized/. He'd /known/ that today was his birthday, of   
course. There was a party tonight at his aunt's house, another dull   
affair with boring people and mediocre music. He longed for the day   
when he'd be done with the things. A man's worth ought to be measured   
by more than his ability to smile while drinking cup after cup of   
lukewarm punch.   
  
It washed over him, with a surprising suddenness. He was thirty today.   
On the one hand, he was well on his way to his intended goal; on the   
other, considering the width and breadth of possible human experience,   
he had wasted his time most scandalously. Although not, when you came   
down to it, as scandalously as most of his acquaintances.  
  
He didn't often think of the Goal he was working so hard for; when he   
did, it tended to skitter out of reach. Men who wanted to rule a city   
were usually the men who shouldn't. So he made very sure that the   
Patricianship wasn't something he wanted, exactly. It was just a   
distant sort of thing, that would eventually happen to him, if he took   
certain steps. Another two years of steps ought to achieve it, more or   
less.  
  
Havelock was a very complicated thinker.  
  
So, Havelock Vetinari, standing in an empty house and cooking for   
yourself, thirty years old, is this worth the Goal?   
  
He could be married by now, and a father. His father had been, at his   
age. His father had been married, and a father, and /inhumed/, at his   
age. Havelock did not intend to be any of those things, especially the   
last.  
  
He'd had opportunities. Old Lord Ramkin had offered him a pleasant   
country house, a considerable income, and of course the entire estate   
when he died, as a dowry for his daughter Sybil. Privately, Lady Sybil   
had told him that she didn't fancy being sold as wife-plus-accessories,   
and asked him quite politely to decline Lord Ramkin's offer.   
  
It hadn't been difficult. He thought Sybil was a sensible woman, except   
for the dragons, and tolerated her far better than he did most of their   
circle. But he didn't /want/ a house in the country. He wanted a house   
in the center of the city. The house he could see from his balcony. The   
Patrician's Palace.   
  
And, with that thought echoing in the empty air, he set about preparing   
for the evening's...he sighed. Festivities.  
  
***  
  
What was it Lady Margolotta had said, years ago, in Uberwald?  
  
I zink I understant you now, Avelock. You do not vant a life of ease.   
You vant a life of sztruggle, or you fear vot you may accomplish. You   
do not vant power. Power iz achieved. You vant /control/, because it   
iz a constant challenge.  
  
He'd give anything to be, right this very minute, in Uberwald. Or   
Genua. Anywhere but bloody Ankh-Morpork. Control? You could have it!  
  
There were many people in the city, and would be many more, who   
strongly believed that Havelock Vetinari was entirely devoid of   
emotion. This was not entirely true. Havelock felt a great many   
things**. He just didn't see that it was anyone else's business what   
they were.   
  
Now, in a filthy mood, he walked along the Ankh-Morpork streets,   
avoiding the clattering coaches and night-time carousers as only a   
trained Assassin could. He'd left the party at Madam's house as soon   
as was polite, considering he was the guest of honor, and dismissed his   
carriage. He wanted to walk home, and see if he couldn't rid himself   
of the anger he felt.  
  
He wasn't sure why the party had upset him; it was like other parties   
he went to constantly, except for the fact that it was his name on the   
cake. There had been the lukewarm punch and the little finger food on   
sticks, and men who could cram five vowel sounds into a single   
syllable. There was dancing and talking and jokes about his age. Sybil   
Ramkin, looking up from her little knot of laughing women, had winked   
at him.  
  
Perhaps it was the wink. Sybil had meant well, but it was the wink of   
one captive animal to another. We'll get our own, it'd said, and when   
we do, thank the gods this'll be a bad memory. When you're Patrician,   
you can have done with silly parties, and you'll have the fools in   
your hand, instead of the other way round.  
  
It had a lot to say, for a wink.  
  
But when? When was he going to get his crack at the city? Not at   
organising it -- that was for dreamers, /organising/ Ankh-Morpork. He   
simply wanted to chain its natural malevolence and use it. Teach these   
stupid little people that one small slice of pie, on a regular basis,   
was better than a whole pie with a dagger in.  
  
Havelock would have been surprised and dismayed -- and wouldn't have   
believed it, if told -- but what drove him was a love of Ankh-Morpork,   
and a desire to make it strong. These seamstresses on the street, they   
ought to have a guild, because he loved the city and wanted its   
inhabitants to be -- well, not safe, not happy, but at least   
/satisfied/. A thieves' guild could cut the actual crime in the city by   
half. A guild of merchants could drag Ankh-Morpork back into position   
as a major trading power.   
  
Dwarves would increase the skill level of city artisans. Even trolls   
could supply a vast workforce for the bits of the city -- like the   
slaughterhouses and construction shops -- that required heavy-lifting.   
Guilds and open trade!   
  
"Here, Quirke, don't be an ass. Come on -- "  
  
Vetinari slid quietly into an alley as the voice broke in on his   
thoughts. Two Watchmen, in battered and grimy breastplates, were moving   
down the street, one chasing the other, who was built like a siege   
engine.  
  
"It's just a /dog/, Quirke."  
  
"It bit me!"  
  
"It gnawed your shoe. The thing's a stray, it's starving!"  
  
"I hates dogs," said the one called Quirke. "Nasty mangy cur. Out of my   
way, Vimesy."  
  
There was the sound of a thump, and a laugh.  
  
"Got to be quicker than that, Vimes. Now move."  
  
Havelock peered around the corner.  
  
The thick one was standing in the middle of the street, a ball of   
brownish fur tucked under one arm, hand clamped around what Havelock   
recognized, vaguely, as a dog's nose. A taller, scrawnier one stood in   
front of him, rubbing his right fist. Every time the one called Quirke   
moved, the one called Vimes did too, blocking him.  
  
"You can't throw a dog in a river in cold blood," Vimes said. "That's   
just...it's just stupid, Quirke!"  
  
"Oh? Is there a law against it? I don't think so. I think if there   
were, there'd be a lot more of the useless vermin in the city. And if   
you don't move, Vimes, I'll knock you on your skinny, righteous arse.   
And /then/ I'll break you to constable."  
  
"Ha, like you got broke back to Night Watch? You won't dare. I'm a   
corporal now too."  
  
"I've got senority, and I say it drowns."  
  
Havelock watched in dry horror. This...this person was going to throw a   
dog in the Ankh. He wouldn't even do that to a rat. And it wasn't more   
than a puppy.   
  
Havelock Vetinari had inhumed grown men before, but he balked at   
killing dogs. Men could fight back, after all. Dogs could too, he   
supposed, but usually wouldn't, which was mankind's fault for   
domesticating them. The animal whimpered.  
  
"You're just the kind of man who'd knock a Watchman down to kill a   
puppy," Vimes snarled, echoing Havelock's thoughts.   
  
He stepped out of the alleyway. Both men jumped.  
  
"Good evening, officers," he said, with a thin smile. The men took in   
his dress, and touched their helmets respectfully.  
  
"Evenin', gov'nor," Quirke said.   
  
"I wonder if you might be of some assistance. I seem to have..." he   
gave them a convincingly foolish smile, "Lost my way. Could you tell   
me, what street is this?"  
  
They looked at each other. "Er...this is Short Street," said the tall   
one, curiously. "Morpork side," he added, just in case Havelock had   
never been across the bridge from Ankh.   
  
"I see. Thank you. That's a fine pup you have there, officer..."  
  
"...Quirke," said the man, pinned by an icy gaze.   
  
"Yes. Quite." Havelock took the small bundle of fur from Quirke's   
unresisting hands, holding it up with the air of an expert. "A purebred   
Ankhian Terrier, it appears," said Havelock, against all evidence. "See   
the teeth?" he pushed the pup's lips up, showing convincingly sharp   
teeth. He showed his own, just in case Quirke had any idea about taking   
the dog back. Vimes' adams apple bobbed nervously.  
  
"How much for a creature such as this?" Havelock asked. "I should like   
to own a good...hunting dog. If you can suffer to part from him, that   
is."  
  
Quirke was on more familiar ground now. "Ah, well, such a fine dog,   
sir, dear to me heart, and to a gennl'man like yourself -- "  
  
"I shall give you two dollars," Havelock said sharply.   
  
"Course, guv. Just a pup." Quirke tried to look casual. Havelock tucked   
the animal under one arm, where it curled tightly against his side. He   
reached into his pocket and pulled out two Ankh-Morpork dollar coins.   
  
There was a pause, fraught with tension. Havelock held the coins out to   
Vimes.   
  
"Here you are...Corporal," he said. "My thanks."  
  
Quirke reached out for the coins, and drew back, whimpering. Havelock   
had barely moved, but Quirke's fingers were already turning purple.  
  
Vimes, eyeing Havelock warily, took the dollars from his hand. He   
tipped his helmet with the most knowing look Havelock had seen in some   
time.  
  
"Again, officers, I am in your debt," Havelock continued, as he let   
himself fade into the streets. Under his arm, the dog squirmed and   
licked his hand.   
  
Behind him, he heard the tall Watchman laughing as his boots pounded   
away.  
  
***  
  
"I say, Havelock, what is that?"  
  
Madam Meserole, seated at Havelock's dining table, pointed to what   
looked like a pile of shaggy carpet sniffing its way along the floor.   
Her nephew shrugged.  
  
"It's a dog," he said.  
  
"It looks like a dog /toy/," said Madam. "One that's been chewed."   
  
Madam was a cat person, one of her few personality flaws.  
  
"I bought him last night. He slept on my bed," Havelock added. "They're   
surprisingly warm."  
  
"You didn't! It probably has mange, and fleas -- "  
  
"I washed him. He's very healthy."  
  
Madam Meserole looked at him, amazed. "Oh. Then...it's probably all   
right, I suppose. Only don't let it too near my kitties."  
  
"I promise, aunt."  
  
"What's that on its neck?"  
  
Havelock looked at the oval of metal, hanging off a knotted leather   
strap. "It's...er, it's a Tells-People-Who-A-Dog-Belongs-To tag," he   
said. "In case he gets lost. Leonard invented them. I stopped at his   
place and had him engrave it for me."   
  
" 'My Master Is Havelock Vetinari'. How nice. Did you know a human year   
is like seven dog years?"  
  
"Did you know a dwarf can live to be five hundred years old? Human   
years, of course."  
  
"You and your...ethnological interests. What do you call it?"  
  
"Call what?"  
  
"The dog," she said, wrinkling her nose.   
  
"He's a dog," said Havelock, brows drawing together.  
  
"I mean, what are you going to name it. When you get a dog, you name   
it."  
  
"But surely he knows who he is."  
  
Madam Meserole gave him a frown. "Are you making fun of your aunt,   
Havelock?"  
  
Havelock bent and picked up the pup. It snuffled his hand, begging   
pathetically.  
  
"I hadn't thought about naming him," he murmured. Then, in an effort to   
stop her from calling the dog 'it' again, he said, "You may name him,   
aunt."  
  
"Oh, well." She squinted at him. "It looks rather like...I know. Before   
you were born, your mother had a dog. Wuffles, she called it."  
  
He stared. "You want me to call my dog Wuffles?" he asked. At the sound   
of the word, the dog leapt up on him, shedding all over his waistcoat.   
"Is it even a word?"  
  
"Well, it's not as though you can give it a human name. I detest people   
who give their pets names like Adam or Maxwell. It shows a disrespect   
for the human condition."  
  
Havelock, having been woken that morning by a wagging tail in his ear,   
rather thought that you could keep the human condition. But, looking in   
the creature's eyes as he drooled on his hand and begged for breakfast   
scraps, he knew that, no matter how hard he tried, the dog would never   
answer to anything but Wuffles.   
  
He sighed. It wasn't a perfect world. It wasn't even a perfect city.   
But a house seems a lot less empty with a dog in it.   
  
And, he thought, there are a lot more stray dogs out there***.  
  
"I think it is time," Havelock Vetinari said, holding the dog on his   
lap and looking out the window at the Patrician's Palace, "To step up   
certain plans."  
  
"Oh?" Madam Meserole smiled.  
  
"Yes. I think I intend to be Patrician by week's end."  
  
He could get a basket and put it under his desk. Wuffles...oh dear,   
/Wuffles/...would like someplace to sleep during the day.  
  
END  
  
  
  
* Only gentlemen took contracts, but Gentlemen didn't have to.  
  
** Ambition, certainly. And if sarcasm was an emotion, he had a full   
supply of that.  
  
*** While the Patrician is considered to be a very literal man in most   
respects, it is this sort of metaphorical turn of phrase that has led   
to him describing Ankh-Morpork as a clock and discussing clacks   
messaging in terms of shellfish, leading to some curious looks from the   
Archchancellor of Unseen University and the Commander of the City   
Watch****.  
  
**** Who spent the two dollars on a hot meal from CMOT Dibbler's   
sausage cart, and lived to regret it. But only just. 


End file.
